Guarded Heart
by buttercup0910
Summary: Takes place after 6 book. Draco is an Animagus and a spy, seeking redemption and the good in his heart. Hermione is hurting with the loss of her family, and is seeking to find herself. Can they manage to help the light defeat Voldemot together? DMHG.
1. Chapter 1

_The art of the Minoan civilization speaks of a society of joyous disposition, in touch with their environment, and in awe of the logical order of the natural world. The Minoan people obviously demanded, of each other and themselves in reference to their art, a high degree of self-respect and a keen eye for observing and adapting to their physical environment._

Hermione sighed, unable to work. Sure, she loved school; she thirsted for knowledge and loved the thrill of learning something new, but History of Magic was not her idea of fun. Professor Binns, she had to admit, was the definition of who _not_ to hire for the teacher of this class.

She was so bored with the "new" information about the Minoan civilization and their art (which didn't even relate to magic and she had already learned a while back) that she started to doodle.

Ten minutes later, five minutes before the class would be over, she looked down at what she had unconsciously drawn. It was a face, framed by wisps of long, straight hair, attached to a young girl's body. Hermione felt tears spring to her eyes, and ground her teeth together, angry at herself.

Why did she always have to think of Sarah? She was dead. She would never come back. And even though she had only been Hermione's half-sister, she still missed the nine year old.

She looked up suddenly as Professor Binns called on her for an answer. She was surprised; he liked to hear his own voice, and no one else's. What had motivated him to speak to her in the middle of his class?

"Do you have the answer, Miss Granger?" he asked, his low, drawling monotone filling her ears.

"Uh," she replied, unable to answer. She cursed herself. Why hadn't she been listening?

She felt something drop into her lap, its weight light. She looked down, and her eyes skimmed over a piece of paper that read, in scrawling cursive, _Freedom of movement, liquidity, and vigor._

Without hesitation, she looked back up at the ghost professor, and smiled charmingly. It seemed he hadn't noticed her lapse of attention. "Freedom of movement, liquidity, and vigor," she answered confidently.

"Very good, Miss Granger. Five points to Gryffindor."

Hermione sighed in relief. She looked back down at the slip of notebook paper. It had vanished. She glanced wildly around the room, to either side of her, but could find no clue as to what merciful soul had taken pity on her state of mind and helped her out.

0000

Finally, blessedly, the day had come when Hermione Granger, book-worm extraordinaire, had not gotten the answer. She wasn't even taking notes, but doodling distractedly on her notebook. He gave an internal chuckle, victorious, but knowing that he would have to help her out of the kindness of his heart.

He didn't have much of a heart, but of what was left of it, of what had survived his father's brutal torture, he reserved what little kindness he had for those he thought worthy of his time. His father was in Azkaban and his mother was dead, but he thought of Snape as a mentor and McGonagall as a kindly aunt. He would never admit it, but both of them had helped him without disgracing him, forgiving him for past deeds, such as letting death eaters into the school last year and indirectly causing Dumbledore's death.

Of course, there were those in the school that didn't forgive him. Hagrid was still struggling with the old headmaster's death, and wouldn't speak to Draco, and Potter and Weasley hated him more than ever, but that didn't bother him. Half of his own house had dropped out of Hogwarts all together, going off to become a Death Eater in service to Voldemort. He however, had other plans.

He had become an Animagus, with not only one form, but three. He had achieved the impossible, something that no one else had ever done before; and McGonagall and Snape had supported him one hundred percent, keeping his secret, trusting him blindly as a spy for the Light side. Potter didn't even know, and Draco laughed as the Boy-Who-Lived became frustrated as the Potions master and the new headmistress gave him new information, not knowing where it came from.

So now they had two spies, one, Snape, getting his information based on trust alone, and one, Draco, getting his based on stealth. He was only glad that McGonagall had accepted Snape back into the staff, too, her, Potter, Granger, Weasley and himself being the only ones who knew the crime he had committed: killing Dumbledore.

Draco knew, as he looked up at the stars at night from under his tree at the lake, that Dumbledore forgave them, too.

Hence how Draco had learned to forgive himself. Every Saturday, instead of hanging out with his friends (he didn't have any, anyway, as almost all of the upper class Slytherins were gone), he went to visit his father, and then traveled to see his mother's grave and to place fresh tulips, her favorite flower, on her tombstone. His father was an empty shell, having been given the Dementor's Kiss almost four months ago, in late July. But nevertheless, Draco went faithfully to see him, his smooth blonde hair, once impeccably groomed, a long, tangled mess, mingling with a newly grown beard. He looked so much older, and, even though Draco had convinced himself that he hated Lucius for beating him and brainwashing him, every time he looked into those hollow gray eyes his heart twanged, and he cried.

Everyone thought that he had his father's eyes. And his father's heart. And his cruelty, too. But his eyes were blue; as blue as the sky on a summer day, or like the Royal Tulips that his mother had always loved because they matched her eyes, too. And his. And their hearts had been similar, also, having a compassionate nature, a love for music and art, a tendency to forgive, and a hopeless romantic streak. Of course, Lucius had abused Draco so much, physically and mentally, over the years, that Draco's heart was mostly a battered and bruised mess, struggling for air, desperate for any compassion. The only compassion he had ever received was from his mother, Narcissa, and a bit from Dumbledore, and a small amount from Snape.

And of course, there was Hermione Granger, who had always wanted to forgive him, but he had thrown it back at her; he had, figuratively speaking, spat in her face. But she never gave up, never thought he was beyond redemption, beyond hope; if he didn't start an argument, she would approach him with something akin to civility, eager to change him for the better. When he wasn't willing to cooperate, and started an argument, they would fight, hurling colorful insults at each other until someone intervened.

No one could ever change him, he knew. Only he knew, in the depths of his soul, that there was a better side to him. He just couldn't seem to find it, bring it out; it was always beyond his reach, just above the surface of the water he was drowning in. He was still cold, Snape the only person he shared any of his thoughts with, sometimes including McGonagall, sharing his opinions on this and that and the war.

He hoped the Light would win. He desperately hoped so, for the good of all man-kind, wizard and muggle; for the good of his father, who had fought so hard for the wrong thing, for the wrong idea. But in the end, his father had only wanted one thing; people thought it was power, wealth, high rank, the Dark Arts…

It was peace. No matter how the world turned out, with Voldemort in power or someone else, with muggles still around or wiped out, his father, and his mother, and Draco, wanted peace. That was it. Simple, right? Not to everyone else.

Draco grinned on the inside as Granger looked around discreetly, wondering, no doubt, who had sent the slip of paper with the answer that she couldn't get on it. He knew that it would probably impede on her pride, someone giving her the answer, but he also knew that she was suffering, inside her mind, so much with the war and the death of her sister and parents that she would be grateful for the help, coming to terms with the brute honesty of her condition; she was flailing. She was hurting, and it seemed, to Draco, that everyone was blind to it but him; even she was, to some degree.

The answer had been the least he could do. He thought her worthy of his consideration; she was intelligent, clever, and beautiful, with a strong and accurate sense of right and wrong, and an open compassionate side; he respected that, and the latter was something that he could never quite have, something that had rapidly disappeared as he grew older into the Death Eater, Voldemort-following way of life.

But, by God, he would do his best to get it back, and someday, when he did, he would show her just how much he appreciated her help. Until then, he would do everything in his power to make sure that the Light side would win.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione watched him as he moved silently out of the room, obviously trying hard not to attract attention. If it weren't for his terrible reputation combined with his undeniable good looks, he would have done a great job. But as it was, everyone's loathsome or desirous gaze flicked to him for just a moment before they moved on. He didn't seem to notice, and if he did, he didn't seem deterred by it.

He knew she was watching him, too, and she didn't look away as his eyes moved back to meet with hers. Blue. They were as blue as hers were brown. And there was so much that he hid behind him. While his face was impassive, his eyes were the only thing that conveyed any emotion, the only window into his fragile soul.

And, even though she only knew a fraction of the terrible things he had undergone, and had pity in her heart for him, he was strong. His heart had been beaten up, but he never faltered. His grades were as good as hers, his physique remained ever solid, muscular and slightly lanky with his Quidditch practice, and he seemed as calm, cool and collected as ever, letting nothing faze him.

Their gaze was locked for a brief moment, and coldness mingled with civility masked a sea of pain and understanding, visible in his bright eyes. An understanding of her.

She didn't understand him. She knew she probably never would, in all likelihood. But, looking into those unfathomable eyes and his expressionless face, she knew, with a sudden, uncomfortable chill, that he got her. He knew her.

And he knew that she knew that he knew. Because a slight smirk and the raising of an eyebrow, the only expression she had seen in days after there last argument, told her so. It was triumphant, and cold, and sly, and understanding. And that made her dislike him even more.

She didn't hate him. She wouldn't, _couldn't,_ let herself hate him. There was too much hate in the world anyway, and if McGonagall felt that there was a reason for him to stay here, unguarded, unsupervised, then she would have to live with him.

She wondered where he went on Saturdays, though. He seemed to work diligently all week long, but on Saturdays he always left the school, hiring a thestral-drawn carriage or a limousine to go wherever he went. On Sundays he left too, but was only gone in the morning, from nine to noon.

She was curious. He was always so secretive, so impersonal. To her, a person without a friend was no person at all. And he didn't have any friends, talking occasionally with Snape about how his Potions essay was coming along or the women Malfoy had bedded lately. But that was it. Nothing, or no one, else.

Hermione sighed and looked away, moving off towards the Great Hall for lunch. She felt his eyes boring into the back of her head the entire time she walked away, and could've sworn she felt the very tips of her hair curl more than they already were.

She made her way to the Great Hall, her mouth watering with hunger. Her only breakfast had been a steaming mug of coffee.

Sitting down at the Gryffindor table, she caught the end of Lavender's conversation with Hermione's best friend, Ginny Weasley. Her eyebrows came down in skepticism.

"Oh, Gin, he's simply the most delicious man I've ever seen! And to think I saw him on his own balcony at Malfoy Manor, shirtless, smoking a muggle cigarette...Oh! He's gorgeous, you have to admit."

Ginny rolled her eyes, and Hermione's widened in shock. Of course, by now, it shouldn't have been a shock to her, as all the older girls in the school seemed to have forgiven Malfoy for his heinous deeds in sight of his incredibly fair, good looks.

But, Draco Malfoy smoking a muggle joint...now that was something else.

She sat down across from them, interested, and ignored Ron and Harry's cries of protest further down the table. Ginny grinned goofily, and Hermione knew that Lavender had been talking about Malfoy, or just guys in general, for the past half-hour.

"I don't _have_ to admit anything, Lav," Ginny replied, a touch of amusement in her voice, "but I will admit that he has caught my eye once or twice. I mean, he does stand out." The stunning redhead flipped her long, loose hair over her shoulder flirtatiously, her green eyes sparking.

Lavender giggled in glee, less mature than both Ron and Colin Creevy put together. The beautiful blonde was only good for one thing: getting guys' attention. As of now, she had half the male specimens in the room drooling.

Hermione hid her smile behind her pumpkin juice glass. "Oh, Lavender, dear, do describe it in detail again, I missed it. So terribly sorry. You wouldn't mind telling the story again for me, would you?"

Lavender almost burst into a round of delighted laughter, her white teeth shining and straight, her blue eyes wide and filled with happiness. "I'd love nothing more, 'Mione. It all started when..."

Hermione giggled when Ginny rolled her eyes once more, exasperated.

Lavender was relating how she was forced by her mother, on one Saturday evening, to go with her to give honorary gifts to distinguished members of the Ministry of Magic. They ended up going to the Malfoy Manor, a giant stone house with lovely gardens of Azaleas and Tulips and Roses and every other flower you can imagine. As Lucius was in Azkaban, the item that was to be given to him would be given to his son, Draco. At first Lavender was disgusted and reluctant, as her mother made her go out back because no one was answering the door, and because she hated Draco with every fiber of her being. So she trounced out back, intent on throwing the honorary package at him, and found him leaning over his back balcony, smoking a muggle cigarette, shirtless, pale against the setting sun.

Then she proceeded to describe his half-exposed body, covering every ridge and muscle imaginable.

Hermione interrupted. "And what did he happen to be wearing on his bottom half, Lav?"

"Muggle jeans, 'Mione."

Hermione choked on air. "You've got to be kidding me."

"No joke."

Even Ginny was shocked now. He had been smoking a muggle cigarette and wearing muggle jeans at the same time.

"Draco Malfoy?" Ginny whispered, doubtful. "He can't own muggle stuff. That's like, against his family policy."

Hermione jumped as a deep, male voice sounded from behind her, a low drawl reserved for the rich, political, and highly respected.

"Actually, ladies, in case you haven't noticed, I am my family now. I'll make my own policy, thank you."

It wasn't a rude statement, merely a defensive one, but the way he managed to say it, with such chill in his tone, made it seem like the rudest thing ever to fall upon their ears.

Hermione turned around slowly, composing herself, her beautiful, expressive face contrasting palely with her dark hair and eyes. Who did he think he was? "Good afternoon, Malfoy. Is there business you have over here?"

He arched one silvery eyebrow, smirking. He managed to lean sexily against nothing, while at the same time seeming upright and powerful. He truly was a commanding presence, though she'd be damned if she'd admit it to anyone.

"Actually, Granger," he said, his voice laced with sarcasm, "I was here to make small talk. How d'you like the weather today, little Gryffindors?"

Lavender took him seriously. "Oh, well, I think it's rather dull, all dreary and dripping."

Ginny snorted, half amused, half disgraced. Hermione kept her face impassive, arching an eyebrow of her own. "Really, ferret. What d'you want?"

His smirk disappeared, replaced by a loathsome expression that sent malevolent chills down her back.

"McGonagall wants to see you. I just came from her office."

Hermione nodded and stood up, grabbing her bag, and stepped over the bench, her high-heeled, black pump catching on the tablecloth. She tripped, falling sideways, knowing she would fall to the floor.

He caught her before she tumbled to the ground, his big, slender hand catching her around the wrist, his other arm catching her waist. With no effort he hoisted her back up, lifted her off her feet and swung her over the bench. She realized, in an awkward, fleeting moment, that her breasts were level with his face, but then she was down on the ground again, secure and safe, her skin tingling pleasantly and dangerously in the places he'd touched her.

"C'mon." he growled, stalking towards the door. She stopped, confused.

"Your going?" she said.

He looked back at her, irritated. "I'm to escort you. Now let's go, before I lose my patience."

She hopped quickly to obey, not daring to oppose him. McGonagall trusted him. And Snape. She would have to deal.

0000

"Miss Granger, do you have any idea why you're here today?"

Hermione managed to conceal a swallow. She had no clue. "Not at all, Headmistress."

"Good," Snape said, sneering. "This is good, Minerva. This means Potter and Weasely know nothing."

"Not necessarily, Severus. Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasely don't always consult with Hermione on certain issues," McGonagall replied, stalking around her desk to sit behind it. "Tea or coffee, dear?" she asked Hermione politely.

Hermione felt like a child. "Tea, please," she said. Malfoy took coffee. Another surprise hidden behind those cold blue eyes.

A house elf appeared to serve them. Snape snatched a mug of hot coffee from the tray. "Those two boys don't have a brain cell between them. Don't give them that credit."

Hermione's patience was wearing thin. Yes, it was worth it to hear Snape give her a twisted sort of compliment. But what was this about? They shouldn't have been keeping _anything _from Harry and Ron. Or her.

"Hermione, dear, we have an assignment for you. Not a school assignment," she continued as Hermione opened her mouth to protest. "Something for the Order."

Hermione nearly choked on her coffee. "Headmistress, I don't know what on earth you're talking about. What is the Order?" Had they all gone mad? Malfoy was sitting right beside her! She tried not to look at him, tried her best to look sincerely confused. It wasn't a façade she was used to putting on.

Snape laughed at her. Laughed! "Miss Granger, I never took you for a fool. Did you really think that we kept young Mr. Malfoy here around because we enjoy his company? He is useful to us, Granger. He's been spying ever since he came back."

Hermione thought she was going to puke. Instead, she put on her best smile. She thought it might look like a grimace. "Oh. Well. Fantastic. So that's where we've been getting all this good intel." She paused, frowning. "I thought you had been scorned by the Dark Lord?"

He did not smirk. His lips didn't even twitch. But she saw his eyes harden. "Not completely, Granger," he said quietly. He was dangerous. So dangerous. "He doesn't believe I'm competent at all, but he still trusts me. He thinks I wasn't able to kill Dumbledore because I didn't have the guts, not because I betrayed him. Which was true, at the time. He has no use for me, but lets me get close and tells me things he shouldn't all the time. Because he thinks I don't have the guts to betray him." He paused. "Which is a very big mistake."

Hermione didn't trust him.

"I see," she said slowly. "Why can't Harry and Ron know?"

Malfoy snorted and took a swig of coffee. He drank it black. No surprise there. "Honestly, Granger? Imagine their reactions. Just picture it in your head, right now."

Okay, he had a point. A very big and valid point.

"Okay. So what does this have to do with me?" she asked again.

Malfoy looked into his cup. McGonagall cleared her throat. "Malfoy has managed to accomplish something very great, Miss Granger," she said hesitantly. "He has three Animagus forms. Which allows him to spy using trust _and _stealth. He believes you have the ability to shift into three as well. At least two."

Hermione's brain felt awfully fuzzy. "Three?" she whispered. It had never been done. Merlin, it had _never been done._ How had he managed to do the impossible? She looked over at him. He was staring into his mug. She cleared her throat. "Why?" she said more strongly. "What would be the purpose?"

"I need a partner," Malfoy said, standing abruptly and striding purposefully over to where Fawks sat. He scratched the phoenix under the chin. "You are the only person in this school that can handle it." He turned away from Fawks to face her. The intensity of his gaze struck her to the bone.

It was a compliment. It was an insult to the rest of the student body. But that didn't matter. He had given _her_ a compliment. And he hadn't melted or thrown up or killed himself.

"Uh…"

"Granger, close your mouth," Snape drawled in satisfaction. "It doesn't become you."

She snapped her mouth shut. "Thank you, Headmistress, Professor, Malfoy, for your…offer. I will think on it."

"You have an hour," Malfoy said sharply. "I need you available to start training tonight, or I have to change plans. I need you ready by next month, and the training I have in mind will be difficult."

McGonagall cut in. "Please consider it, Hermione. You would be far more useful to us with Draco than with Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasely. We feel that your talents need to be utilized well, and right now they are sitting on the shelf collecting dust."

She was silent, lost in thought. She looked at Malfoy. His eyes were locked on hers. She saw nothing that should have set her off there. Just a mixture of pain, anticipation, loss and loathing. The usual. What was he up to? Was he playing them, or was he honest? What would she be doing, with him?

He moved towards the door.

"I'm in."

He stopped. "You're certain?"

She nodded, her eyes cold. "As long as we can lay down some rules."

There it was. His smirk. His eyes were a little less cold than they had been a moment ago. "I wouldn't expect anything less, Granger. Meet me in the astronomy tower at ten." 


End file.
